Cover Your Eyes (Morgans of Nashville 1)

Georgia moved up on stage and joked with a couple of the band players. “KC, where are you? Come on up here?”

KC’s annoyance ebbed as he glanced toward the stage. “Looks like the boss is calling.”

“Don’t let us stop you,” Deke said.

Without a glance back to Rachel, KC, with Brenda in tow, headed to the stage.

Deke remained at Rachel’s side until Georgia called him up on stage. “Duty calls.”

“Have fun.”

“Always.”

Deke moved through the crowd, which naturally parted as he nudged his way forward. On stage he kissed Georgia’s cheek. She laughed, clearly enjoying the night.

Rachel felt a twinge of jealousy for the woman so in her element. It had been a long time since she’d not felt like the perpetual fish out of water.

To her surprise, a smiling Oscar McMillian approached her. He had a mixed drink in his hands and was dressed in dark jeans and a gray V-neck sweater. His dark hair was slicked back. His grin was wide and welcoming. “Attorney Wainwright. You are about the last person I’d expect to see here.”

She hugged her soda closer. “What are you doing here?”

“What do you mean?”

“You are on trial for murder. Do you really think partying is wise?”

“I didn’t kill anyone. And I’m innocent until proven guilty.”

The cavalier attitude surprised her. It took more stones than brains to crash a cop party. “Perception is important. You should live low-key until the trial.”

“That could be months. And I’m not going to change my life because the cops screwed up.” He sipped his drink and seemed to will his anger to calm. “Like I said, I’d never have expected to see you here.”

“Why is that?”

He flashed a devil’s seductive smile. “You don’t strike me as the type who has a lot of fun. All work, no play kind.”

No matter how charming he was, he was not her friend, nor would he ever be. “Nice seeing you, Mr. McMillian. But I’ve a friend to meet.”

He reached out and touched her arm. She froze.

“Thank you,” he said. “I’d still be in jail if it wasn’t for you. If I hadn’t gotten out and had a chance to talk to my boss, I’d have lost my job. And my apartment. You literally saved my life.”

Carefully, she pulled her arm free. “We’ve a long way to go, Mr. McMillian.”

“Oscar. Please call me Oscar.”

She shook her head. “No. We’ll keep it formal.”

“Sure. Sure. Whatever you want. I want you to know how much I appreciate you.”

“Sure.” A small smile teased the edges of her lips. “Have a good night, Mr. McMillian.”

He said his good nights and as she turned toward the bar she caught Deke’s gaze. He was frowning. Very unhappy. She faced the bar and raised her hand toward the bartender. He came her way. “Beer.”

“Sure.”

He pulled a long neck from the cooler and handed it to her as Georgia started to sing. The bartender raised his gaze and stared past Rachel toward the stage. Craggy features softened with a bewildering wistfulness.

“Wow,” Rachel said. “She’s a real talent.”

The man jerked his gaze from Georgia as if embarrassed by the unguarded moment. “All kinds come through the door and think they can sing. Most aren’t as good as they think they are, but she’s a rare one.”

“You been here long?”

“Forty years. I’m Rudy. I own the place.”

“Forty years ago this area of town was pretty rough from what I hear.”

“We didn’t get the tourists and nice folks then. It was drug dealers, bikers, and working girls. Never knew when there’d be a fight in the back alley and someone would get themselves killed.”

“Why’d you stay?”

He regarded the packed house of cops, tourists, and locals. “This is my home. And I’m a tough bird. No one takes what’s mine.”

Rachel had said similar words to Deke the other night when he’d questioned leaving her home the night of the attack. She raised her drink. “I hear ya.”

Rudy served several more customers as Georgia’s voice washed over a crowd now rapt in each note and melody. When he returned she said, “I don’t suppose you remember Annie Rivers Dawson? She’d have sung here thirty years ago.”

Rudy picked up a glass and wiped it with a clean towel. “Folks have asked about her.”

Since her appearance on the news. “You remember her?”

“Sure. I remember Annie. She was a big hit here. And she was nice. Beautiful. The whole package.”

“I’ve gotten real curious about her. I guess dying young immortalizes her like Marilyn Monroe or James Dean.”

“I suppose.”

“What kind of songs did she like to sing?”

“The classics with a rock edge. She was ahead of her time.” He listened as Georgia sang the last notes of her song. “I pulled tapes of her the other night and was watching them.”

Keen curiosity grabbed hold of Rachel. “You have tapes of Annie?”

“Have several, as a matter of fact.”

“Could I see them?”

He studied her, curious. “Why would you care?”

A lie would smooth out so much, but she heard herself saying, “I’m the attorney that’s representing Jeb Jones.”

His eyes narrowed. “The man convicted of killing her?”

“Yes.”

Old eyes studied her. “You’re the attorney that was punched. You look different.”

“The suit makes me look more respectable.”

He leaned forward. “Thirty years ago everyone in Nashville thought that guy deserved hard time. Black-and-white to me.”

“Might have looked that way then.”

“Time has a way of making us all second guess old decisions.” He picked up a rag and wiped the counter as if trying to rub out a spot. “Do you really think that Jones guy is innocent?”

She sensed genuine curiosity, not anger. “There’re a lot of unanswered questions. And I like to have all my questions answered.”

“A lot of people don’t agree with you.”

The hate emails were her first clue. “I know.”

As Georgia’s voice eased into her last song, Rudy studied her. “Come on in the back.”

No hint of welcome or asking in his voice. An order. “Why?”

“You’ll be glad.” He motioned for another bartender to cover his spot and then gestured for her to follow. When he vanished behind a swinging door without looking back she glanced around hoping someone had seen their exchange. Finding no one, she shoved out a breath, took a swig of her beer, and followed. Behind the door stretched a hallway leading to a light streaming from a single door. The music from the bar faded as she walked down the hallway. She was wondering if she’d lost her mind. Rubbing damp palms on her jeans, she peered inside the door and found a cubbyhole-sized office.

Rudy hovered over a small desk buried in papers. Boxes of liquor stacked high against a wall covered in dozens of black-

and-white photos of singers over the decades. The windowless room smelled of cigarettes and age.

From the desk drawer Rudy pulled out an unwieldy VHS videotape. “I was watching it this morning.”

In here, he looked larger, more imposing. “I haven’t seen one of those in years.”

He turned the tape over in his hand as if realizing it was a relic. “My video machine is upstairs so I can’t show it to you.”

“It’s a tape of Annie?”

“A recording of her last performance here.” Annie was scrawled in dark black ink along the white-labeled spine. There was no date.

She accepted the bulky cassette. “When was this taped?”

“I never was good at dating items. But I’d say about eight months before she died.”

Annie’s letters came to mind. February 5, I’m not feeling so well. “I have a friend that can convert it if you’ll let me borrow it.”

His gaze lingered on the tape. “Sure. Take it.”

The cartridge rested heavy in her hand. “Why are you doing this?”

“Why?” He shrugged. “Maybe I’ve questions about who killed Annie. Not all the pieces added up for me. And I don’t like it when facts don’t add up.”

A musty scent clung to the tape. “You dug this out because you saw me on the television?”

As if she’d not spoken, he nodded toward the door. “In part for you. In part for Dixie. I liked her.”

“What do the two women have in common?”

“Talent. Beauty. A bad death. And maybe nothing.”

“Could the same person have killed both women?”

“Not likely, I suppose.” He shifted and nodded toward the door. “I’ve got to get back.”

“Sure.” She tucked the tape into her satchel. “I’ll bring it back.”

He waved away her offer. “Keep it. I don’t need it back.”

“Are you sure?”

Sadness lingered around him. “No amount of watching a tape is gonna bring her back. She’s dead and gone.”

“You miss her?”

He was silent for a moment. “Yeah. I miss her.”

Tenderness crept into his voice. Rudy, like so many men, had fallen under Annie’s spell. “Ever hear of a guy named Sugar?”

“Who?”

“Sugar. A friend of Annie’s.”

His face registered blank. “No. How’d you come up with that name?”

“Research.”